Death of a Fool (2 page)

“Tell me this,” she said. “Tell me. Out there in the courtyard, mantled in snow and surrounded at the moment by poultry, I can perceive, and with emotion I perceive it, a slightly inclined and rectangular shape. Mr. Stayne, is that object the Mardian Stone? The dolmen of the Mardians?”

“Yes,” said Ralph. “That’s right. It is.”

“The document to which I have referred concerns itself with the Mardian Stone. And with the Dance of the Five Sons.”

“Does it, indeed?”

“It suggests, Mr. Stayne, that unknown to research, to experts, to folk dancers and to the societies, the so-called Mardian Mawris (the richest immeasurably of all English ritual dance-plays) was being performed annually at the Mardian Stone during the winter solstice up to as recently as fifteen years ago.”

“Oh,” said Ralph.

“And not only that,” Mrs. Bünz whispered excitedly, advancing her face to within twelve inches of his, “there seems to be no reason why it should not have survived to this very year,
this
winter solstice, Mr. Stayne —
this very week
. Now, do you answer me? Do you tell me if this is so?”

Ralph said, “I honestly think it would be better if you forgot all about it. Honestly.”

“But you don’t deny?”

He hesitated, began to speak and checked himself.

“All right,” he said. “I certainly don’t deny that a very short, very simple and not, I’m sure, at all important sort of dance-play is kept up once a year in Mardian. It is. We just happen to have gone on doing it.”

“Ach, blessed Saint Use-and-Wont.”

“Er — yes. But we have been rather careful not to sort of let it be known because everyone agrees it’d be too ghastly if the artsy-craftsy boys — I’m sure,” Ralph said turning scarlet, “I don’t mean to be offensive, but you know what can happen. Ye olde goings-on all over the village. Charabancs even. My family have all felt awfully strongly about it and so does the Old Guiser.”

Mrs. Bünz pressed her gloved hands to her lips. “Did you,
did
you say ‘Old Guiser’?”

“Sorry. It’s a sort of nickname. He’s William Andersen, really. The local smith. A perfectly marvellous old boy,” Ralph said and inexplicably again turned scarlet. “They’ve been at the Copse Smithy for centuries, the Andersens,” he added. “As long as we’ve been at Mardian, if it comes to that. He feels jolly strongly about it.”

“The old man? The Guiser?” Mrs. Bünz murmured. “And he’s a smith? And his forefathers perhaps made the hobby-horse?” Ralph was uncomfortable.

“Well —” he said and stopped.

“Ach! Then there is a hobby!”

“Look, Mrs. Burns, I–I do ask you as a great favour not to talk about this to anyone, or — or write about it. And for the love of Mike not to bring people here. I don’t mind telling you I’m in pretty bad odour with my aunt
and
old William and, really, if they thought — look, I think I can hear Dulcie coming. Look, may I really
beg
you —”

“Do not trouble yourself. I am very discreet,” said Mrs. Bünz with a reassuring leer. “Tell me, there is a pub in the district, of course? You see I use the word pub. Not inn or tavern. I am not,” said Mrs. Bünz, drawing her hand-woven cloak about her, “what you describe as artsy-craftsy.”

“There’s a pub about a mile away. Up the lane to Yowford. The Green Man.”

“The Green Man. A-a-ach! Excellent.”

“You’re
not
going to stay there!” Ralph ejaculated involuntarily.

“You will agree that I cannot immediately drive to Bapple-under-Baccomb. It is three hundred miles away. I shall not even start. I shall put up at the pub.”

Ralph, stammering a good deal, said, “It sounds the most awful cheek, I know, but I suppose you wouldn’t be terribly kind and — if you
are
going there — take a note from me to someone who’s staying there. I–I — my car’s broken down and I’m on foot.”

“Give it to me.”

“It’s most frightfully sweet of you.”

“Or I can drive you.”

“Thank you most terribly, but if you’d just take the note. I’ve got it on me. I was going to post it.” Still blushing he took an envelope from his breast-pocket and gave it to her. She stowed it away in a business-like manner.

“And in return,” she said, “you shall tell me one more thing. What do you do in the Dance of the Five Sons? For you are a performer. I feel it.”

“I’m the Betty,” he muttered.

“A-a-a-ch! The fertility symbol, or in modern parlance —” she tapped the pocket where she had stowed the letter — “the love interest. Isn’t it?”

Ralph continued to look exquisitely uncomfortable. “Here comes Dulcie,” he said. “If you don’t mind I really think it would be better —”

“If I made away with myself. I agree. I thank you, Mr. Stayne. Good evening.”

Ralph saw her to the door, drove off the geese, advised her to pay no attention to the bulls as only one of them ever cut rough, and watched her churn away through the snow. When he turned back to the house Miss Mardian was waiting for him.

“You’re to go up,” she said. “What have you been doing? She’s furious.”

Mrs. Bünz negotiated the gateway without further molestation from livestock and drove through what was left of the village. In all, it consisted only of a double row of nondescript cottages, a tiny shop, a church of little architectural distinction and a Victorian parsonage: Ralph Stayne’s home, no doubt. Even in its fancy-dress of snow it was not a picturesque village. It would, Mrs. Bünz reflected, need a lot of pepping-up before it attracted the kind of people Ralph Stayne had talked about. She was glad of this because, in her own way, she too was a purist.

At the far end of the village itself and a little removed from it she came upon a signpost for East Mardian and Yowford and a lane leading off in that direction.

But where, she asked herself distractedly, was the smithy? She was seething with the zeal of the explorer and with an itching curiosity that Ralph’s unwilling information had exacerbated rather than assuaged. She pulled up and looked about her. No sign of a smithy. She was certain she had not passed one on her way in. Though her interest was academic rather than romantic, she fastened on smithies with the fervour of a runaway bride. But no. All was twilight and desolation. A mixed group of evergreen and deciduous trees, the signpost, the hills and a great blankness of snow. Well, she would inquire at the pub. She was about to move on when she saw, simultaneously, a column of smoke rise above the trees and a short thickset man, followed by a dismal-looking dog, come round the lane from behind them.

She leant out and in a cloud of her own breath shouted: “Good evening. Can you be so good as to direct me to the Corpse?”

The man stared at her. After a long pause he said, “Ar?” The dog sat down and whimpered.

Mrs. Bünz suddenly realized she was dead-tired. She thought, “This frustrating day! So! I must now embroil myself with the village natural.” She repeated her question. “Vere,” she said speaking very slowly and distinctly, “is der corpse?”

“ ’Oo’s corpse?”

“Mr. William Andersen’s.”

“ ’Ee’s not a corpse. Not likely. ’Ee’s my dad.” Weary though she was she noted the rich local dialect. Aloud, she said, “You misunderstand me. I asked you where is the smithy. His smithy. My pronunciation was at fault.”

“Copse Smithy be my dad’s smithy.”

“Precisely. Where is it?”

“My dad don’t rightly fancy wummen.”

“Is that it where the smoke is coming from?”

“Ar.”

“Thank you.”

As she drove away she thought she heard him loudly repeat that his dad didn’t fancy women.

“He’s going to fancy
me
if I die for it,” thought Mrs. Bünz.

The lane wound round the copse and there, on the far side, she found that classic, that almost archaic picture — a country blacksmith’s shop in the evening.

The bellows were in use. A red glow from the forge pulsed on the walls. A horse waited, half in shadow. Gusts of hot iron and seared horn and the sweetish reek of horse-sweat drifted out to mingle with the tang of frost. Somewhere in a dark corner beyond the forge a man with a lanthorn seemed to be bent over some task. Mrs. Bünz’s interest in folklore, for all its odd manifestations, was perceptive and lively. Though now she was punctually visited by the, as it were, off-stage strains of “The Harmonious Blacksmith,” she also experienced a most welcome quietude of spirit. It was as if all her enthusiasms had become articulate. This was the thing itself, alive and luminous.

The smith and his mate moved into view. The horseshoe, lunar symbol, floated incandescent in the glowing jaws of the pincers. It was lowered and held on the anvil. Then the hammer swung, the sparks showered and the harsh bell rang. Three most potent of all charms were at work — fire, iron and the horseshoe.

Mrs. Bünz saw that while his assistant was a sort of vivid enlargement of the man she had met in the lane and so like him that they must be brothers, the smith himself was a surprisingly small man: small and old. This discovery heartened her. With renewed spirit she got out of her car and went to the door of the smithy. The third man, in the background, opened his lanthorn and blew out the flame. Then, with a quick movement he picked up some piece of old sacking and threw it over his work.

The smith’s mate glanced up but said nothing. The smith, apparently, did not see her. His branch-like arms, ugly and graphic, continued their thrifty gestures. He glittered with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead in a white fringe. After perhaps half a dozen blows the young man held up his hand and the other stopped, his chest heaving. They exchanged roles. The young giant struck easily and with a noble movement that enraptured Mrs. Bünz.

She waited. The shoe was laid to the hoof and the smith in his classic pose crouched over the final task. The man in the background was motionless.

“Dad, you’re wanted,” the smith’s mate said. The smith glanced at her and made a movement of his head. “Yes, ma-am?” asked the son.

“I come with a message,” Mrs. Bünz began gaily. “From Dame Alice Mardian. The boiler at the castle has burst.”

They were silent. “Thank you, then, ma-am,” the son said at last. He had come towards her but she felt that the movement was designed to keep her out of the smithy. It was as if he used his great torso as a screen for something behind it.

She beamed into his face. “May I come in?” she asked. “What a wonderful smithy.”

“Nobbut old scarecrow of a place. Nothing to see.”

“Ach!” she cried jocularly, “but that’s just what I like. Old things are by way of being my business, you see. You’d be —” she made a gesture that included the old smith and the motionless figure in the background—“you’d
all
be surprised to hear how much I know about blackschmidts.”

“Ar, yes, ma-am?”

“For example,” Mrs. Bünz continued, growing quite desperately arch, “I know
all
about those spiral irons on your lovely old walls there. They’re fire charms, are they not? And, of course, there’s a horseshoe above your door. And I see by your beautiful printed little notice that you are Andersen, not Anderson, and that tells me so exactly just what I want to know. Everywhere, there are evidences for me to read. Inside, I daresay —” she stood on tiptoe and coyly dodged her large head from side to side, peeping round him and making a mocking face as she did so — “I daresay there are all sorts of things —”

“
No, there bean’t then.
”

The old smith had spoken. Out of his little body had issued a great roaring voice. His son half turned and Mrs. Bünz, with a merry laugh, nipped past him into the shop.

“It’s Mr. Andersen, Senior,” she cried, “is it not? It is — dare I? — the Old Guiser himself? Now I
know
you don’t mean what you’ve just said. You are much too modest about your beautiful schmiddy. And so handsome a horse! Is he a hunter?”

“Keep off. ’Er be a mortal savage kicker. See that naow,” he shouted as the mare made a plunging movement with the near hind leg which he held cradled in his lap. “She’s fair moidered already. Keep off of it. Keep aout. There’s nobbut’s men’s business yur.”

“And I had heard so much,” Mrs. Bünz said gently, “of the spirit of hospitality in this part of England. Zo! I was misinformed it seems. I have driven over two hundred —”

“Blow up, there, you, Chris. Blow up! Whole passel’s gone cold while she’ve been nattering. Blow up, boy.”

The man in the background applied himself to the bellows. A vivid glow pulsed up from the furnace and illuminated the forge. Farm implements, bits of harness, awards won at fairs flashed up. The man stepped a little aside and, in doing so, he dislodged the piece of sacking he had thrown over his work. Mrs. Bünz cried out in German. The smith swore vividly in English. Grinning out of the shadows was an iron face, half-bird, half-monster, brilliantly painted, sardonic, disturbing and, in that light, strangely alive.

Mrs. Bünz gave a scream of ecstasy.

“The Horse!” she cried, clapping her hands like a madwoman. “The Old Hoss. The Hooded Horse. I have found it.
Gott sei Dank
, what joy is mine!”

The third man had covered it again. She looked at their unsmiling faces.

“Well, that
was
a treat,” said Mrs. Bünz in a deflated voice. She laughed uncertainly and returned quickly to her car.

Up in her room at the Green Man, Camilla Campion arranged herself in the correct relaxed position for voice exercise. Her diaphragm was gently retracted and the backs of her fingers lightly touched her ribs. She took a long, careful deep breath and, as she expelled it, said in an impressive voice:

“ ‘Nine-men’s morris is filled up with mud.’ ” This she did several times, muttering to herself, “On the breath, dear child,
on
the breath,” in imitation of her speechcraft instructor, whom she greatly admired.

She glanced at herself in the looking-glass on the nice old dressing-table and burst out laughing. She laughed partly because her reflection looked so solemn and was also slightly distorted and partly because she suddenly felt madly happy and in love with almost everyone in the world. It was glorious to be eighteen, a student at the West London School of Drama and possibly in love, not only with the whole world, but with one young man as well. It was Heaven to have come along to Mardian and put up at the Green Man like a seasoned traveller. “I’m as free as a lark,” thought Camilla Campion.

She tried saying the line about nine-men’s morris with varying inflexions. It was
filled up
with mud. Then, it was filled up with
mud
, which sounded surprised and primly shocked and made her laugh again. She decided to give up her practice for the moment and, feeling rather magnificent, helped herself to a cigarette. In doing so she unearthed a crumpled letter from her bag. Not for the first time she re-read it.

Camilla sighed, tucked away the letter and looked along the lane towards Copse Forge.

“I’ve got to be glad I came,” she said.

For all the cold she had opened her window. Down below a man with a lanthorn was crossing the lane to the pub. He was followed by a dog. He heard her and looked up. The light from the bar windows caught his face.

“Hullo, Uncle Ernest,” called Camilla. “You
are
Ernest, aren’t you? Do you know who I am? Did they tell you I was coming?”

“Ar?”

“I’m Camilla. I’ve come to stay for a week.”

“Our Bessie’s Camilla?”

“That’s me. Now do you remember?”

He peered up at her with the slow recognition of the mentally retarded. “I did yur tell you was coming. Does Guiser know?”

“Yes. I only got here an hour ago. I’ll come and see him tomorrow.”

“He doan’t rightly fancy wummen.”

“He will me,” she said gaily. “After all, he’s my grandfather! He
asked
me to come.”

“Noa!”

“Yes, he did. Well — almost. I’m going down to the parlour. See you later.”

It had begun to snow again. As she shut her window she saw the headlights of a dogged little car turn into the yard.

A roundabout lady got out. Her head was encased in a scarf, her body in a mauve handicraft cape and her hands in flowery woollen gloves.

“Darling, what a make-up!” Camilla apostrophized under her breath. She ran downstairs.

The bar-parlour at the Green Man was in the oldest part of the pub. It lay at right angles to the Public, which was partly visible and could be reached from it by means of a flap in the bar counter. It was a singularly unpretentious affair, lacking any display of horse-brasses, warming-pans or sporting-prints. Indeed, the only item of anything but utilitarian interest was a picture in a dark corner behind the door: a faded and discoloured photograph of a group of solemn-faced men with walrus moustaches. They had blackened faces and hands and were holding up, as if to display it, a kind of openwork frame built up from short swords. Through this frame a man in clownish dress stuck his head. In the background were three figures that might have been respectively a hobby-horse, a man in a voluminous petticoat and somebody with a fiddle.

Serving in the private bar was the publican’s daughter, Trixie Plowman, a fine ruddy young woman with a magnificent figure and bearing. When Camilla arrived there was nobody else in the Private, but in the Public beyond she again saw her uncle, Ernest Andersen. He grinned and shuffled his feet.

Camilla leant over the bar and looked into the Public. “Why don’t you come over here, Uncle Ernie?” she called.

He muttered something about the Public being good enough for him. His dog, invisible to Camilla, whined.

“Well, fancy!” Trixie exclaimed. “When it’s your niece after so long and speaking so nice.”

“Never mind,” Camilla said cheerfully. “I expect he’s forgotten he ever had a niece.”

Ernie could be heard to say that no doubt she was too upperty for the likes of them-all, anyhow.

“No, I’m not,” Camilla ejaculated indignantly. “That’s just what I’m
not
. Oh dear!”

“Never mind,” Trixie said comfortably and made the kind of face that alluded to weakness of intellect. Emie smiled and mysteriously raised his eyebrows.

“Though, of course,” Trixie conceded, “I must say it
is
a long time since we seen you,” and she added with a countrywoman’s directness, “Not since your poor mum was brought back and laid to rest.”

“Five years,” said Camilla, nodding.

“That’s right.”

“Ar,” Ernie interjected loudly, “and no call for that if she’d bided homealong and wed one of her own. Too mighty our Bessie was, and brought so low’s dust as a consequence.”

“That may be one way of looking at it,” Trixie said loftily. “I must say it’s not mine. That dog of yours is stinky,” she added.

“Same again,” Ernie countered morosely.

“She wasn’t brought as low as dust,” Camilla objected indignantly. “She was happily married to my father, who loved her like anything. He’s never really got over her death.”

Camilla, as brilliantly sad as she had been happy, looked at Trixie and said, “They were in love. They married for love.”

“So they did, then, and a wonderful thing it was for her,” Trixie said comfortably. She drew a half-pint and pointedly left Ernie alone with it.

“Killed ’er, didn’t it?” Ernie demanded of his boots. “For all ’is great ’oards of pelf and unearthly pride, ’e showed ’er the path to the grave.”

“No. Oh,
don’t
! How you can!”

“Never you heed,” Trixie said and beckoned Camilla with a jerk of her head to the far end of the private bar. “He’s queer,” she said. “Not soft, mind, but queer. Don’t let it upset you.”

“I had a message from Grandfather saying I could come. I thought they wanted to be friendly.”

“And maybe they do. Ernie’s different. What’ll you take, maid?”

“Cider, please. Have one yourself, Trixie.”

There was a slight floundering noise on the stairs outside followed by the entrance of Mrs. Bünz. She had removed her cloak and all but one of her scarves and was cozy in Cotswold wool and wooden beads.

“Good evening,” she said pleasantly. “And
what
an evening! Snowing, again!”

“Good evening, ma-am,” Trixie said, and Camilla, brightening up because she thought Mrs. Bünz such a wonderful “character make-up,” said:

“I
know
. Isn’t it
too
frightful!”

Mrs. Bünz had arrived at the bar and Trixie said, “Will you take anything just now?”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Bünz. “A noggin
will
buck me up. Am I right in thinking that I am in the mead country?”

Trixie caught Camilla’s eye and then, showing all her white teeth in the friendliest of grins, said, “Us don’t serve mead over the bar, ma-am, though it’s made hereabouts by them that fancies it.”

Mrs. Bünz leant her elbow in an easy manner on the counter. “By the Old Guiser,” she suggested, “for example?”

She was accustomed to the singular little pauses that followed her remarks. As she looked from one to the other of her hearers she blinked and smiled at them and her rosy cheeks bunched themselves up into shiny knobs. She was like an illustration for a tale by the brothers Grimm.

“Would that be Mr. William Andersen you mean, then?” Trixie asked.

Mrs. Bünz nodded waggishly.

Camilla started to say something and changed her mind. In the Public, Ernie cleared his throat.

“I can’t serve you with anything, then, ma-am?” asked Trixie.

“Indeed you can. I will take zider,” decided Mrs. Bünz, carefully regional. Camilla made an involuntary snuffling noise and, to cover it up, said, “William Andersen’s my grandfather. Do you know him?”

This was not comfortable for Mrs. Bünz, but she smiled and smiled and nodded and, as she did so, she told herself that she would never, never master the extraordinary vagaries of class in Great Britain.

“I have had the pleasure to meet him,” she said. “This evening. On my way. A beautiful old gentleman,” she added, firmly.

Camilla looked at her with astonishment

“Beautiful?”

“Ach, yes. The spirit,” Mrs. Bünz explained, waving her paws, “the raciness, the
élan
!”

“Oh,” said Camilla dubiously, “I see.” Mrs. Bünz sipped her Cider and presently took a letter from her bag and laid it on the bar. “I was asked to deliver this,” she said, “to someone staying here. Perhaps you can help me?”

Trixie glanced at it. “It’s for you, dear,” she said to Camilla. Camilla took it. Her cheeks flamed like poppies and she looked with wonder at Mrs. Bünz.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t quite — I mean — are you —?”

“A chance encounter,” Mrs. Bünz said airily. “I was delighted to help.”

Camilla murmured a little politeness, excused herself and sat down in the inglenook to read her letter.

Camilla read this letter about six times in rapid succession and then put it in the pocket of her trousers. She would have liked to slip it under her thick sweater but was afraid it might fall out at the other end.

Her eyes were like stars. She told herself she ought to be miserable because after all she had decided it was no go about Ralph Stayne. But somehow the letter was an antidote to misery, and there went her heart singing like a lunatic.

Mrs. Bünz had retired with her cider to the far side of the inglenook, where she sat gazing — rather wistfully, Camilla thought — into the fire. The door of the Public opened. There was an abrupt onset of male voices — blurred and leisurely — unforced country voices. Trixie moved round to serve them and her father, Tom Plowman, the landlord, came in to help. There was a general bumble of conversation. “I had forgotten,” Camilla thought, “what they sound like. I’ve never found out about them. Where do I belong?”

She heard Trixie say, “So she is, then, and setting in yonder.”

A silence and a clearing of throats. Camilla saw that Mrs. Bünz was looking at her. She got up and went to the bar. Through in the Public on the far side of Trixie’s plump shoulder she could see her five uncles — Dan, Andy, Nat, Chris and Ernie — and her grandfather, old William. There was something odd about seeing them like that, as if they were images in a glass and not real persons at all. She found this impression disagreeable and to dispel it called out loudly, “Hullo, there! Hullo, Grandfather!”

Camilla’s mother, whose face was no longer perfectly remembered, advanced out of the past with the smile Dan offered his niece. She was there when Andy and Nat, the twins, sniffed at their knuckles as if they liked the smell of them. She was there in Chris’s auburn fringe of hair. Even Ernie, strangely at odds with reality, had his dead sister’s trick of looking up from under his brows.

The link of resemblance must have come from the grandmother whom Camilla had never seen. Old William himself had none of these signs about him. Dwarfed by his sons he was less comely and looked much more aggressive. His face had settled Into a fixed churlishness.

He pushed his way through the group of his five sons and looked at his grand-daughter through the frame made by shelves of bottles.

“You’ve come, then,” he said, glaring at her.

“Of course. May I go through, Trixie?”

Trixie lifted the counter flap and Camilla went into the Public. Her uncles stood back a little. She held out her hand to her grandfather.

“Thank you for the message,” she said. “I’ve often wanted to come but I didn’t know whether you’d like to see me.”

“Us reckoned you’d be too mighty for your mother’s folk.”

Camilla told herself that she would speak very quietly because she didn’t want the invisible Mrs. Bünz to hear. Even so, her little speech sounded a bit like a diction exercise. But she couldn’t help that.

“I’m an Andersen as much as I’m a Campion, Grandfather. Any ‘mightiness’ has been on your side, not my father’s or mine. We’ve always wanted to be friends.”

“Plain to see you’re as deadly self-willed and upperty as your mother before you,” he said, blinking at her. “I’ll say that for you.”

“I am
very
like her, aren’t I? Growing more so, Daddy says.” She turned to her uncles and went on, a little desperately, with her prepared speech. It sounded, she thought, quite awful. “We’ve only met once before, haven’t we? At my mother’s funeral. I’m not sure if I know which is which, even.” Here, poor Camilla stopped, hoping that they might perhaps tell her. But they only shuffled their feet and made noises in their throats. She took a deep breath and went on. (“Voice pitched too high,” she thought.) “May I try and guess? You’re the eldest. You’re my Uncle Dan, aren’t you, and you’re a widower with a son. And there are Andy and Nat, the twins. You’re both married but I don’t know what families you’ve got. And then came Mummy. And then you, Uncle Chris, the one she liked so much and I don’t know if you’re married.”